The Last Ninjas

Indecision lurks in every crack of the alleyway paving. Mud pools, like rusted silver amalgam, fill stone-stained cavities, and my craving for Black Panther’s secrets rises from within them like methane gas over a thousand hot springs on a chilly winter’s morning.

I’m standing near a pile of garbage, and the stench of decomposing food plugs my nostrils. For a moment my breath morphs into a moth; I have to catch it before I can hold it.

I readjust my mask and check my tabi boots. The soles are coming away at the seams.

Black Panther’s out of reach. I’ll never be able to capture her tonight.

She isn’t named after a large melanistic cat for nothing. Master never made his opinion about anyone publicly known until one night when, after his wife’s sudden passing and more than a few sakés, he let slip that Black Panther…